Horns of Harvest

Now the hour has come,
to cut the grain,
and this time, on we journey.
We bid farewell,
to these fields of home,
our wagons filled with bounty.
The generosity,
of the land,
that touched the feet,
of our spiral dance,
We bid farewell,
this sacred place,
we hold a fond remembrance.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
(We will remember this place)

The sheafs all gathered,
for the voyage,
our horses packed,
our bundles wrapped,
Yet here we stand,
a final gathering,
we share the fruit
and one last dance.
The generosity
of the sun,
that touched our skin
and warmed our soul,
We bid farewell
this living land,
and take it with us,
wherever we go.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
(We will remember this place)

Now the hour has come,
to share the beauty,
for one last chance
we have to stand,
Hand in hand
in this ancient meadow
heart to heart
on this sacred land.
The generosity
of these fields
they are not the first
we’ve bid farewell,
In seasons past,
we’ve had to part,
so many lands,
that held out hearts.

When we hear the horns of harvest play,
(when the sun is high,
and the hour grows late)
remember again this sacred place,
(when the wind of harvest,
sweeps the grains)
For many homes we’ve yet to know
wherever on this earth we go,
When we the hear the horns of harvest play
We will remember this place.

The Rye Wolf

The rye-wolf is walking amongst the grass,
the blade of autumn rising.
Days of spring have come to pass,
the reapers greet the ripening.
Whence fields grow heavy in the ear,
and pale turn sheaves of ripened rye.
The seeds in springtimes furrows cast,
crown first harvest hour sky.

Hear we offer
summer’s first fruit,
upon the altar
of a meadow bright.
Hear we share
summer’s first grain,
within the temple
of ancient light.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.

The wheat-wolf is rushing over the field,
windy steps mark summer blades.
The dogs of harvest howl and wail,
at the last stroke of the summer’s flail.
Whence the sheaves have all been chopped to straw,
the reapers march and sing their song,
the grains in springtime’s furrows cast,
rise to crown the sky once more.

Hear we offer
summer’s first bread,
upon the altar
of fading day.
Hear we share
summer’s first wine,
within the temple
of golden rays.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.

The corn-wolf’s hour is growing short
soon barley meets the threshing floor.
The seed is separated from the chaff,
as autumn raises her blade once more.
The fields of grain will soon be razed,
and the wolf will have no place to hide
Our hope’s in springtimes furrows cast,
shall bid the rye-wolf at last goodbye.

Hear we offer
summer’s first harvest,
upon the altar
of golden earth.
Hear we share
a horn of plenty,
a grateful blessing
of joy and mirth.

Oh gather thy sheaves,
raise thy sickle to the grains,
hear the season call your name.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.
Tears of joy,
tears of sorrow,
hear the call, come home again.
A golden wreath,
the crown of summer’s day,
hear the season call your name.

Long Ago There Were Nine

Long ago there were nine,
of woven song,
at the core of time.
Spiraling from their trinities,
they carved in stones the tales of trees.

The seasons their story
and time their harp,
the sky their canvas
and the world their art.
Who sang the balance
the sun their muse,
nine were the song
at the beginning.

Spiraling back,
they bear a glimpse,
of forgotten secrets,
hidden until
the time of returning.

They are the poetry
that speaks from the stones,
they are memories of time;
lost but not forgotten.

Their poetry breaths
through the cracks in the land,
and whispers
through the night.
In cavernous darkness
they shine brightest
darkness their secret home,
and shadow their bed of dreams.

Long ago there was one
of golden fire
as the midday sun.
A child at play
whose laughter gave birth to stars.

A fire at the heart
of all trinities,
whose love song
mended duality.
The seasons his story
and night his love,
duality shattered
in his mirrors of innocence.

Playing the song
on the lyre of fire,
he whispers
through the blinding light.
For she his mother,
a son of undying love.
For she his daughter,
all care and shelter.
For she his wife,
a fire through death and life.

Long ago their were two,
the rose and flame of summer.
As Mother Eire
and her lover true,
the seasons their bridge
across forever.

She carried him across
the waters of the west,
through the scarlet of twilight ,
and whispered as he lay to rest.

“Sleep beneath these apple trees,
a fire in the head,
dream of all
that the world could be,
through the season that lays ahead.
May all the world again remember,
a rekindled flame,
relit from an ember.
A love story that lives
within each heart
that time nor death
can ever part.”

Spiral Bound

Of dark and light
a season told,
of sun and rose
of days of old.
Five the petals
of the spiral flower,
one falls to earth
in the autumn hour.
A symbol
of an ancient path,
a ritual
of exchanging masks.
A core of muses
one to three
and the dueling twins,
of duality.
And the circle grows
each time around,
and all within
are spiral bound.

At dawn and twilight
a balance wakes,
golden barley
in moonlight shakes.
Five great spokes
of an ancient wheel,
who break the bonds
of hidden seals.
Symbols,
of beginning and end,
spiraling,
to change and mend.
From the core beginning
long ago,
in scarlet white and indigo.
And the circle grows
each time around,
and all within
are spiral bound.

Of sun and rose
a lovetale told,
summer green
must face the cold.
Five black seeds
of the apples core,
return to fertile earth
once more.
Symbols,
of an age to come,
a sign of birth,
when a season’s done.
A sprig which spirals
from a grain,
rising up,
to taste the flame.
And the circle grows
each time around,
for all within
are spiral bound.
Casting prayers
on fate or chance,
all within,
the spiral dance.

Alight

The root is turning
beneath the great tree,
the sprig is twisting
In the heart of the seed this hour.
Feel the first bud unfurling
with tomorrows bright flowers,
whilst the old ice is melting
In the dawns early hours.
Gone crumbling memories
of autumns lost leaves,
gone the dark sickle
and the hour of grief.
Gone the bright star
‘neath a blanket of white,
gone the dim shadows
from the darkest of night.

The candle is burning
on the altar of night,
the lantern of morning
begins to arise.
Hear the first bird singing
with tomorrows bright song,
feel the wise trees awaken
in the first hours of morn.
Come the great lantern
from beneath the dark hood,
come the bright dawning
awaken this wood.
Feel the first light of morning
calling days flowers,
gone the dim shadows
come the first dawning hours,
Alight.

Here Among the Stones

Here among the stones
older than memory,
rhythyms of sun
moon and stars.
Here among the stones
we walk in the footsteps,
walked in a memory
in a lifetime afar.

Roses may wither
And triumphs may fade,
for dreams of spring
must find autumns grey.
Winds may come,
and dim shadows may call,
here under the sun
when the sickle must fall

Here among the stones
old as the moon,
we light the candle
of a harvest to come.
Here among the stones
we walk in the presence,
of pillars old
upon dreamings young.

Here among the stones,
oh here upon this earth,
ages have passed
on dreams of rebirth.
Here under the sun
when the last rose is red,
dreaming of a harvest
when all shall be fed.

Faunus Ritorno

Oh how the day took slumber
so late on this summers night,
whence all who was left
in our wood neath this moon,
was an odd and familiar sprite.

Oh how the night gave refuge,
to the one who was cast away,
to the one whose horn,
rang through this wood
by night and too by day.

Oh how the pipes sounded
all through the silent land,
and here within this summer wood,
the ritual began,
called by the pipes of Pan.

Oh how the night,
was awakened,
by that single yearning note.
Echoed through valleys,
far and near,
the song was returned,
by all who could hear.

Oh came the fearless rumble,
then came the breathless chant.
Yet their stamping feet,
in the dark of night,
set fear in hearts,
who knew only light.

Banished afar
by fear and doubt,
and one by one,
their lights went out.

Yes the wood grew quiet
and the night grew dim,
and the moon didn’t seem
to shine so bright,
and the spirit of
the evening rose,
sang all through
the woods of night.

She raised her heart,
a lifted flame,
that all that was lost
should be regained.
She lifted the light
in her true loves name,
to return and claim
the crown of night.

She danced the dance
that he might return,
she lit the fire
that forever burns.
She lifted the light
in her true loves name,
to return to her
one midsummer’s night.

Called across the age,
called back from dreams,
called from memories,
into a midsummers green.
He heard the distant voices
and saw the distant lights,
he raced across the land and sea
called by one who still believed.
“Come again,” she called
to this dark wood,
come back to this lonely land
“Come again our faun,
our sprite, our hood,
our robin, our puck, our pan,
come again.”

And with these words,
he who had faded,
shined more bright,
than eyes had seen.
And in the darkness
of a midsummer night
a familiar wood,
enchanted and green.
By the light of her wings
and a bright midnight moon,
those who had feared
all joined in renewed.
By a twinkling light
on a summers eve,
when all who had forgotten,
remembered… how to believe.

The Firewheel

How the firewheel rolled
over the midsummer hills,
while bonfires were lit,
all throughout the land.
Processions of torches,
through the solstice fields,
wearing chaplets of mugwort,
and woven vervain.

How they looked at the fire,
through the larkspur held in their hands,
keeping safe the season,
and the dreams of bright fertile lands.

How the straw was brought in,
from every clan,
on hilltops gathered,
by children and men.
The flames to signal,
the valley below.
Bright flames to remember,
what they already know.

And they drove the wheel into the waters,
like the sun sinking into the western sea.
As they had done a thousand years ago,
as they done in an elders memory.

As they departed,
they cast the chaplets into the fire
and bid farewell to sorrows,
taken by the smoke.
That good omens may soon return,
that the guardians of harvest,
might be awoken.

In the morning they gathered in the valley,
at the place of the standing stones.
And as the high sun passed across the sky,
the shadows told us stories
of a flame so close.

And the fields were blessed with music,
and the trees were blessed with light
And we welcomed in the coming darkness
through the fires of a midsummers night.